


tell me we'll never get used to it

by makescalamity



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, The X Factor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4415438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makescalamity/pseuds/makescalamity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Liam won’t remember locking his jaw or his sunburnt neck, but the long awaited “I’ve gone with my heart, you’re through,” will be branded forever into his mind. The rest is a blurry circle of triumph and yelling before Harry is gone and then Niall and Zayn to positively scream thank you at Simon, as if he didn’t already know he was changing their lives.</em>
</p><p>  <em>He can only stare at Louis in wonder because this was never supposed to happen until it just - did.</em></p><p>  <em>And he can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of him because they were almost stopped by a sea urchin, of all things.</em></p><p>Or, how One Direction fell in love with itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me we'll never get used to it

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken's _Scheherazade_.

There are too many _almosts_ to not call it fate. But they don’t anyway because _Christ, that sounds dumb, Niall._

There are the ones that were laughably close, like Harry and Louis standing 30 people apart at The Script, and then a year later, at their auditions. Like Liam walking into his room at boot camp and Niall bounding over, throwing an arm around his neck, and asking whether he preferred the bed by the window. Then there are the ones that they’ll never know about, like Harry passing Liam at Heathrow when they were eight, or when his bus driver got lost on a class trip to Manchester, and Louis caught a glimpse of a fourteen-year-old Zayn playing football in his school yard. 

So many times they almost met; glances, side-steps, mere moments away from the boys who would divide and conquer the same life. Not-Fate was tugging on their red strings, and they could feel something missing, like bones that just never grew in.

They laugh it off like it’s no big deal, but there were all those _what ifs_ that slot in after - like what if your Mum hadn’t forced you to be brave? Or what if Katy said no? What if you didn’t sing that second song? And what if you hadn’t come back? - that they all silently agree they’re glad the past cannot be changed.

In retrospect, they decide that something-like-fate suits them well.

 

_we'll have the life we knew we would_

 

They meet like a chain reaction.

It all begins with Louis and his thirst for diet Pepsi. He’s had three cans in an hour, they’ve been dancing for near two, and if he’s honest he has to piss like a racehorse.

Louis only meant to have a wee and get away from Choreographer Brian who keeps yelling at them all to stay on tempo. He never knew entering the bathroom in the East Corridor would split his life in two. He nudges the door open with his hip and stumbles over his feet, something he'll always blame on dance exhaustion rather than the sight that greets him.

There's a skinny boy standing in front of the mirror, all moppy curls and pink lips that Louis feels indecent even looking at. He's washing his hands, humming a rough melody under his breath. When the door falls back, it hits Louis with a dull _thud_ and the boy looks up, his eyes a terrible, wonderful, vibrant green.

“Oops!” the boy says, huffing something like a laugh. “You ok?”

Louis’ blinks a bit, awestruck, because they certainly don’t make them like this in Doncaster.

“Hi,” he says back, straightening up and shaking out his hair. “I – uh, yeah, no worries. Best way to open doors is to fall through them."

Watching the boy in the corner of his eye, he makes his way to the urinal, unzipping. He's just whipped his cock out when it hits him. He raises his head and his voice as he calls over.

"Hey, I think I know you!" Louis startles when he finds he curly boy already staring at him.

And then he's walking over.

And Louis is still peeing.

And if this isn't the oddest introduction he's ever been a part of, he'll get it tattooed on his forehead.

"Do you?" the boy says, standing in Louis' very personal space as he shakes off and tucks himself back in. Louis can't really find it in himself to care.

"You audition in Manchester?" he asks instead. At this, the boy goes a sinful shade of pink and nods like he's confused.

"Yeah, me too. I remember, we saw you in the queue with a camera in your face. Doing an interview or something, I guess." He remembers a whole lot more than that; like looking at this little mouse of a boy with a halo of curls and feeling a rush he wrote off as concern, hoping the world wouldn't eat him alive.

"Knew you were going to be big then," he says, and flashes the kid a smile, hoping to get one in return. The left side of his mouth quirks up like he wants to, but can't quite manage it.

"Anyway," Louis continues, extending a hand, "'M Louis Tomlinson, I'm from Doncaster and I think you have the nicest hair I've ever seen on man or beast."

"Harry Styles,” the boy replies, taking it with a startled laugh. "Cheshire, and I got sneezed on by a horse once, and that's why my mum says my hair is so crazy."

Up close, his eyes are rimmed in red, and his hands are still soapy, but something makes Louis unable to let go.

“Are you alright, mate?” Louis presses, walking over and switching on the faucet. He hopes Harry doesn't mind having his pee on his hands. Harry, who apparently neither notices nor cares, blanches to the curls resting on his ears and clears his throat.

“Nervous I guess. I just wanted to know if I was any good, but so is everyone here. It’s a bit – overwhelming.”

Louis thinks he knows exactly how Harry feels. 

But Harry is just the kind of person that they’re looking for, this curly-haired baby-faced kid who can knock out a tune. Standing in front of him, Louis feels like he should be more disappointed that his chances of moving further are next to none, but really what were they anyway?

“Distract me then,” Louis says, shaking water off his hands and hopping up on the cold metal counter. “What’s your story?”

It starts as a moment to catch their breath, to calm their nerves before they go back out and continue to make fools of themselves in the name of music. But the more Harry talks about the bakery, making the age cut by one day, how all he ever really wanted was to sing, it ends like the beginning of something entirely new. Louis can’t help feeling like he wants to take him apart, shine all his pieces and send him off in the world to do something marvelous.

Harry shuffles his feet and bites his nails, so Louis wraps him in a hug and tells him he’s going to be just fine. They even take a picture together, one Louis claims will be worth millions when they both become superstars. Harry smiles again, and this time it’s genuine.

This fucking kid's got black holes for dimples and eyes the color of spring. Harry must be one of those people who can charm anything off their feet and sitting next to this beautiful boy with a tap still running, Louis feels like he just sold a piece of his soul to the devil.

/

Harry has heard all about The Amazing Liam Payne, whose cover of Cry Me A River received a rousing standing ovation. He's all for camaraderie, for the give and the take and the love of the music, but Harry's decided to keep a particularly close watch on him.

Just in case.

/

Liam and Zayn meet over their mutual love for McChicken. Liam's sat outside with Aiden, trying to force the over processed maybe-meat past the nervous lump in his throat. The rest of Boot Camp buzzes around them, an ever-growing crowd desperate to feed themselves during their break in rehearsals.

Everybody's laughing and chatting, some singing through mouthfuls of burgers in a literal gross display of talent. Liam feels apart from it all. He's the biggest cliché, but it's just easier not to talk to them. He didn't come here to make friends, he reminds himself; he came here to win.

Unmoving and hunched, a boy catches his eye in this flurry of nervous energy. Liam thinks he might recognize him, but can't place his name.

He nudges Aiden. "Who's that?"

Aiden peers over at the boy, sitting by himself at the top of the stairs. "Oh, that's Zayn, I think?" He says as he raises his hand in a wave.

Zayn Malik, Liam's memory supplies, looks a bit startled as he tips his McChicken in acknowledgement before shoving the rest in his mouth.

The fact that he looks sad and alone, strangely, makes Liam feel less so.

/ 

Later, both Liam and Zayn agree that this Niall kid might as well be the King of Boot Camp, a little blonde ball of energy you can hear coming from across the room.

Niall is strumming his guitar on the steps outside Wembley. He's contagious, magnetic, and he gets everyone within a 20 metre radius to sing about one love, one heart.

"Fucking unbelievable, fellas," he shouts over the last chord. A girl behind him laughs and he beams back at her, his straggly teeth more endearing than disturbing.

"Justin Bieber?" Zayn asks.

"Course," Niall says, unashamed. "Think he's great!" and he laughs again, even though no one said anything funny.

/

Later that day, neither Harry nor Liam’s names are called and Louis feels as devastated as they look.

/

Niall's never really talked to Louis until they’re called back in front of Simon. He's heard him speak before, sexy, husky voice that he has, but always to the boy with the curls. It's Harry, he learns later, clapping a hand to his shoulder while they trudge back on stage. But if he's good at anything, it's loving people, and Louis is just the kind of person he really wants to know. Also, he notices, as Louis climbs the short set of stairs back through the curtain, his shoes are kind of sick.

/

Louis is terribly confused. He knew from the beginning that his chances were slim, that most people had voices that were stronger and louder than his. He doesn't know how stand alone on stage and sing his heart out.

So he hasn’t a clue why any of these boys, much less himself, are being herded back on stage.

Louis can feel Harry there, slightly to the left and a protective surge rises up in his ribs at his tear stained face and his worn cotton beanie. Something is happening, but it's impossible to think with the stage lights and the rest of his life staring him in the face.

He barely hears Simon finish before Harry's scooping him up, ecstatic, flushed and surprisingly strong. Louis needs more time to sort out the way his heart beats the uneven trip of a measure, but he supposes he might be a bit busy living his dream.

They assure the judges that yes, they would very much like to take this opportunity before they circle up off stage and off camera. They’re just smiling ridiculous at each other, waiting for one of them to decide what to do in this fragile balance they’re calling luck. When someone finally speaks, it’s Niall. 

“Well, I think we should all dress like Louis, because I like his shoes.” No one can do anything but laugh, and agree that TOMS are most definitely in their future.

They spend a week up at the Bungalow, talking and messing around more than they should, singing in unison, and then learning not too. They grow into each other and they can’t even help it. Some things like this were supposed to unfold.

They might not be ready for this, but they don’t have a choice. Before anyone can believe it, their fledgling band is packed and shipped to Simon’s, FRAGILE and HANDLE WITH CARE stamped red, still drying on their sides.

 

_and this is how i feel_

 

“Mind if I join you?” Liam’s hair flicks into his eyes as he turns to take in a mostly-bare Harry, curls askew, pants slung low across his hips. He’s leaning against the doorframe, wound so tightly into himself, and Liam knows he’s only about five months younger, but he just looks so _small_.

He gives a shaky nod because being alone doesn’t sound so appealing anymore, and really, no one can say no to Harry. Lack of sleep lacing the slouch of his shoulders, Harry slips heavily onto the couch opposite him, feet landing next to Liam's on the table. His back pops once, twice, before he settles and sighs.

In the last few weeks, Liam’s adjusted. To interwoven voices and easy touches, like the boney ankle now resting on his own. To the fragility of his dream because he knows there will be no ‘ _next time_ ’, next time.

He’s still working on these fervent boys he calls his band, who think knowing someone for a month warrants no need for physical boundaries or privacy. Louis talked to his mum on the phone this morning. An hour later, Niall stole his favorite jumper. Liam was Not Pleased.

Sometimes it’s like they've all become one brain because Harry mutters, “What if it doesn’t go, then? Because, like, I can’t just be what I was now that I’ve seen - it,” and he gestures weakly with the hand not draped over the back of the couch. His voice is deeper when he hasn't slept, but Liam can catch the fear behind it.

He just picks at a loose thread in the seam of the couch. The silence makes his ears feel full of cotton.

“It won’t matter,” Liam breathes back eventually, but of course it will, to the two of them more than anyone. Niall, Louis, Zayn, they all had plans, futures to catch up to if the fickle idea of making a boy band for a singing competition doesn’t work out. He and Harry are just different. Maybe they both want this too much, and maybe that’s a bad thing.

Liam doesn’t like lying, but Harry is trusting and sleepy and can’t hear Liam thinking _of course it will matter_ or _what will I do without you all_ or _I understand, more than you know, I understand_.

But Liam has been told no before, and life can go on, deaf to his dream of taking the world by song. They’ll just have to figure out what comes next, good or bad, together.

He wishes Louis would bounce in with his big heart and his even bigger mouth because Liam’s not very good at the hand holding and comfort.

For now, the room stays quiet and so do they, and all is not well in Spain.

 

_you're a little late_

 

The next morning makes Liam want to cry. They sound good, so good but the nerves fray hot under his skin and everything is a little smudged around the edges. It all goes well, until Louis being a maddening, frustrating, beautiful boy stepped on a _something_ when he wasn’t supposed to be in the sea and leaves them all reeling. Liam likes him, he really does, and his brain is whirring in a million different dark places it should not be going to. The whole mess is unsettling, like missing a step in the dark he thought would be there. They’re just not good without him.

If they didn’t need Louis’ voice so bad, Liam would strangle him. Or at least punch him in the arm and bring him an ice pack.

It sets them all on edge. Once, Niall tries to pat Harry on the back, a half-hearted attempt at reassurance, and he yelps like a wounded animal. After that, they stay close but never touching, not wanting to further invest in something stopped before it could start.

As five or nothing at all. It was never spoken, but they had always agreed.

Call it coincidence, call it fate, call it the meddling hand of a higher power, but just as Liam’s decided that he’s going to talk to Simon and preserve some of their dignity, one of the producers rounds them up to say that Louis’ been discharged with nothing more than a severely wounded ego and a sea urchin sting to the foot.

Liam desperately wants to laugh because only Louis, their Louis with his crazy ideas and open arms, Louis who can sometimes seem bigger than life itself would be strange enough to be stung by a sea urchin. 

He’s limping when he steps out of the van and his smile is sheepish, but the four of them rush forward to carry him in like he’s King of the World. And over Niall’s stream of constant chatter, Zayn complaining about Louis' weight and Harry’s reverent smiles, Liam sees shadows of the five of them, what they could be if this works. He feels like live wire on wet pavement, and he’ll do everything, anything at all to bring it to life.

"Liam?” The hard knock of shoulder on shoulder shakes him back in and they’re staring at him, waiting for something. "My injured leg is not going to carry itself, get a move on!”

He beams back at Louis because he can’t remember the exact moment his life became ridiculous. (Although, he guesses, it might have been while five boys got thrown together when all they ever did right was dream.) As they march back to the house by the sea, Liam thinks not for the last time that King Louis might be the best thing he's ever heard.

There’s a final sound check and a quick sweep of hair and makeup, but soon all Liam feels is the music thrumming deep in his veins and four warm bodies behind him as he sings. There’s enough awkward knee-bopping and arm-reaching to be just shy of cringe worthy, but they’ve made it through alright. Simon looks mildly bored, which is better than he hoped for if no help at all.

They wait nearly two hours, biting already blunt nails and baking in the dying heat of a Spanish summer. Liam tries to steady his breathing and stop his heart from bruising through his ribcage. They’re to be next and he can’t remember how many whoops of joy he heard before he shook out his hair and tried not to cry for the eleventh time.

They shuffle past the pool and lock around each other, Louis’ arms widest to swallow them in.

Liam won’t remember the details. He won’t remember how Harry’s fingers clenched on Niall’s side, or Zayn gnawing relentless on his bottom lip, or the brush of Louis’ hand, sweaty and shaking on the back of his arm.

He won’t remember locking his jaw or his sunburnt neck but the long awaited “I’ve gone with my heart, you’re through,” will be branded forever into his mind.

The rest is a blurry circle of triumph and yelling before Harry is gone and then Niall and Zayn to positively scream thank you at Simon, as if he didn’t already know he was changing their lives.

He can only stare at Louis in wonder because this was never supposed to happen until it just - _did_.

And he can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of him because they were almost stopped by a sea urchin, of all things.

 

_be my mirror, my sword, and shield_

 

_Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inh-_

"Breathe, man." Niall says, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

It's not working though, and he fucking needs it to.

Backstage before he's about to sing for his life, Zayn is going to faint. He doesn't understand how Liam does this on the regular without bursting into fits of spontaneous tears.

It’s suffocating, his impossible, right-now-life. The rising noise from the crowd and the epic operatic intro music adds to the pressure wringing out his lungs. Zayn inhales sharply and lets it out in a heave.

The only reason he’s even here is because of his mum. Right now, he wishes he were on the other side of the screen, lying on the couch with a twinge in his neck and a knee in his back, waiting for his dream to never happen from the comfort of his own home.

Instead, he’s got a microphone about to slip out of his sweaty fist and four nervous-energy bandmates trying to keep it together, and failing almost as spectacularly as he is. 

Harry is bent double, pale faced and shaking. Louis' beside him, of course, hand on his back, speaking softly. Liam has fingers in his ears, singing to keep his voice warm. Niall, the cheery fuck, is grinning.

Zayn can't even remember the words. He- shit, he's going to fuck up. Maybe he’ll trip off the stage, maybe a light will fall on him, put him out of his misery.

His breath leaves him, and doesn't come back. Beside him Niall notices, not hesitating before he clings to Zayn sideways, hands crossed over one shoulder, head cradled on the other like a giant, cuddly, blonde sloth.

The arm stretched across his chest should make his breathing worse, but it doesn't. Niall doesn't leave him, and under his easy smile and his bleached hair, Zayn can feel his nerves too. So for a minute it's just the two of them in a tangle of limbs and when Niall squeezes him tighter, it forces the nerves and doubt and breath right out of him. He cups a hand around the back of Zayn's neck, runs his fingers through the scritchy hairs he finds there. With chapped lips up by his ear Niall says "We're gonna smash, no worries," and rests his forehead against Zayn's temple. He only pulls away when Randall, the stage manager, urges them into position and offers a thirty second warning.

Niall pulls back quick enough to press a kiss to his cheek. Zayn offers him a weak smile, and the other boys join them. They stare at each other; a trembling quintet.

"Well," Louis says, "let's do this shit, boys."

Niall's hand finds his in the half-light. He squeezes, and mutters a quick “Breathe," before Liam's leading them into the rest of their lives.

The doors swing open to the chord of C. Zayn steps forward-

_Inhale. Exhale._

 

_my life would suck without you_

 

The first time it happens, they're at Friday rehearsals and its really, really bad timing.

Louis' staring out from behind his mic, attempting to shrink the daunting empty seats by force of will. He's not really paying attention; honestly, all he has to do is smile-sing and bop around on stage for three minutes while Liam and Harry belt it out. So it takes him a moment to realise that the music's been stopped and Harry, who should be halfway through his solo is very, very silent.

There's a collective murmur that rises up from their miniature audience, and the rest of his bandmates are a tight-knit cluster of worried faces. They keep casting nervous glances down to a shivery bundle next to a scuff on the floor; Harry crouched over his knees, pale fingers spidered out to hold him up.

"Harry?" Zayn asks as Louis rushes over.

"M'good" Harry says back, blinking up at them with glassy eyes and shaking his head when they ask if he needs anything. After a minute, Liam hoists him by his armpits, squinting at the spotlight, small in his fuzzy grey jumper. Niall gathers him close and pets at his back, raising his eyebrows at Louis who shrugs and wrings his hands. Zayn cards his fingers through his curls. Harry clears his throat, twice, before he can mumble "M'fine, m'good, let’s go again."

There's a beat of hesitation because he looks anything but. The song restarts anyway, and none of them hit their cues on time, distracted. Liam's too flat on his high notes, and Harry's getting more and more frustrated at his inability to remain upright. Savan cuts it.

"Come back in an hour," he says. "Eat, sleep, whatever. Get it together, and we'll start again."

So they pile into the van to take them home. Harry stays silent and leans his clammy forehead against the window. They'd learned earlier that he can’t open his mouth without turning an unstable shade of puce.

Louis won't say anything if Harry doesn't want to talk about it. Unable to quell his worry though, Louis' whole body jumps with the need to touch him. He wants to lean over and press a hand (and a kiss or two) to Harry’s pale forehead, but he doesn't know if that would make it worse. So his bites at a hangnail on his thumb and wishes that there were something he could do to make it better.

When they get back to the house, Niall, Liam and Zayn rush upstairs, thinking Harry might need his space. Louis will do no such thing. Harry is wobbly over the countertop, staring at a glass of orange juice like it might be the death of him. When his knees buckle, and Harry nearly whomps himself on the marble, Louis takes matters and Harry into his own hands.

Less than a minute later, Louis strides into their room with Harry draped over his shoulders like a sack of flour, or perhaps more aptly, a tiny injured lamb.

"Lou?" Liam says, concerned.

"Harry's really not well." Louis sets him right side up on his bed.

Niall bounces over, asks if he's alright, but Harry shakes his head, curls lank and sticking in mats around his hair line. His face a disturbing washed-out grey, he surprises them all by bolting up and stumbling to the bathroom. The noises that follow do not bear repeating.

There's a general consensus to give him some space. Louis ignores them and follows him anyway. After all, he's is totally qualified for this. His mum was a nurse.

He's heartbroken and slightly disgusted when he sees Harry slumped and shaking over the toilet with tears in his eyes. Louis sinks down beside him. Harry heaves again.

"Oh Hazza, poor sweetheart. How're you feeling?"

Harry keens weakly in response.

"Yeah, stupid question. C'mere babe." Louis tuts comfortingly and gathers him up so Harry's resting on his lap instead. He pets at his sweaty curls until the trembling slows.

"Thought you said you were fine."

"Guess not," Harry croaks back, smudging his face into Louis' thigh.

Louis ignores it. He is a saint.

But a dissatisfied one. Harry hadn't been fine earlier; not all there perhaps, but not this bad either.

"Wanna tell me what's the matter, then?"

Harry whines and his shaking head becomes a nuzzle into Louis lap. _A saint_.

"S'dumb. You'll laugh."

"I won't. I absolutely won't, I promise. Please?" Louis implores. Harry says nothing.

"I can't fix it if I don't know, pet. Did you stop loving me?" He scrunches his face into a very pathetic pout. Harry peeks an eye up at him, sighs and says-

"M'so nervous, Lou. Can't handle it."

"Now why would I laugh at that?" he asks, laughing. Harry glares and Louis tries to look chastened. "Harry, it's normal. I'm nervous. The boys are nervous-"

"Yeah, well none of you are making yourselves sick over it." Louis scratches at Harry's scalp. He almost purrs.

"Would you like me to?" He makes a retching noise and Harry swats at his hip.

"Solidarity and that," Louis finishes with a smile.

Harry peers up at him, sweaty, fever-hot but still so lovely.

"Besides, we've only had a week of this. It'll get easier."

"Hope so," he thinks Harry says, but it's mumbled from where he's curled back into the nest of Louis thighs. "S'the best thing I've ever done."

Louis hums and uses the sleeve of his jumper to wipe the sweat from Harry's face. "It'll only get better for you, babe." But Harry's already asleep.

Louis lets him rest for a while, long after his legs have gone numb, soothing strokes down the curve of his spine. When it's time to get back to rehearsals, he scoops Harry up (something he won't be able to accomplish alone much longer) and tucks him in his own bed. The other boys don't question it; they can practice without him if they have to.

Liam grabs the bin from the corner and Zayn drops paracetamol on a mostly-clean t-shirt by Louis' bed. Niall sets a worn-looking pack of gum lovingly on the pillow because "It'll taste like he swallowed a cat when he wakes up." Only when he's sufficiently satisfied that Harry won't die without them here, and Liam calls frantic from downstairs, does Louis leave his perch on the side of the bed. He brushes the curls out of Harry's eyes, and they flutter open.

"We leaving?" he asks.

"Me and the boys, yeah. You're staying right here, Harold. Gotta get you better, that comes first."

Harry looks like he wants to protest, so Louis presses a finger to his lips.

“No, I simply won't have it. You've already got us all beat at singing and beauty. We need to catch up. Sleep. Please?"

Harry concedes and shuts his eyes. "My absolute favorite Lou, you know."

"Better be," he whispers as he leaves.

So Louis goes to rehearsals, but not all of him comes with, mind too wound up in his sick boy at home. It's late when they've finally finished and all Louis wants to do is crawl into bed. He strips down to his boxers in the dark, and slips beneath his boy-warm sheets.

“Lou?” 

“S’not contagious. Budge over, you're in my bed anyway. There's a good lad."

Cozied up in a bed not meant for two, Louis feels more settled than he has for hours.

"How'd it go?" Harry's voice is scratchy in the dark.

"It was fine," he lies. Trying to sing without Harry was tragic at best, and a catastrophic disaster at worst. Their timing is off, their voices don't match, everything is knocked a bit off its axis. But Harry doesn't need to feel any worse than he already does. Those are all worries for tomorrow.

"Missed you though."

"I always miss you, Lou."

Louis laughs, and kisses the back of his head before he mutters, "Back to sleep please."

Next morning is the first time the boys find Louis folded around Harry like he's going to block out the world. It's not the last time Louis wakes to curls in his nose, boney shoulder blades, and a hand pressed to Harry’s sternum, delighted at the heart beneath - staccato in an endless coda.

 

_baby, oh the secret's safe with me_

 

Liam thinks his bandmates are all decidedly strange.

Video Diary Week 3 does absolutely nothing to convince him otherwise; Louis pretends to be a song, bites a hat, bites a biscuit, bites Harry. A question about legitimate musical instruments somehow devolves into animal noises. Everything Louis does is only encouraged by Niall's peals of raucous laughter, and half-hidden smiles from Harry. Liam smiles through all of it, wanting to join in, to be easily quirky, but he just doesn't know how. He doesn't like to dwell on the things that make him not so fun. 

Later that night, get-to-know-you drinks with the constants eventually turns to Drunk Direction feat. increasingly sexual Truth or Dare, hosted by Louis Tomlinson.

"Zayn?"

"Truth."

"The weirdest thought to make you come?"

"I dunno, my mate's Mum, probably?"

"Tame you are, Z. Expand your horizons."

Niall laughs because everything Louis ever says is funny. Louis claps his hands, sets his jaw and yells, "Alright, my go!" He seems almost too drunk for the actual amount of alcohol he has consumed. From what Liam's already seen, Drunk Louis is Sober Louis between two facing mirrors with a lasso and a Redbull. All of that energy is multiplied tenfold, plays off itself, and intensifies. He's more manic and everywhere at once with his sprawling limbs and grabby fingers.

Tonight though, Liam doesn't see that. His voice has an edge of hysteria to it, and a look in his eyes strangely akin to stage fright. Louis' intent on something more than his intoxicated alter ego could ever hope to be.

And tonight apparently, that something is Harry.

"I dare myself to kiss the most beautiful person in this room!" he shouts, remembering to slur his words halfway through.

Zayn puckers his lips and leans forward, mocking.

"Don't flatter yourself," Louis says, smacking a hand to Zayn's face. His eyes never leave Harry's.

"Can you even do that?" Niall asks laughing, red faced where his head is hanging upside down off the couch, gnawing on a slice of pizza. He doesn't notice the crumbs falling into his hair.

"Of course I can kiss Harry," Louis answers, looking offended. Harry flushes, but doesn't protest.

"No, like, dare yourself or whatever," Zayn says, eyes flicking between his two flushed and giggling bandmates.

"I dunno, do I? Fine then, I dare Harry to receive a kiss from the second most beautiful person in this room. Don't even think about it, man."

When Louis throws an arm out to stop a pouting Zayn, his eyes meet Liam's. Liam swears for years that he winks. For years, Louis winks again, and denies it. (And maybe Liam should have said something, but he already figures it would've happened anyway, alcohol be damned. Later, he's glad that they were all a part of The Beginning.)

Uninterrupted, Louis crawls over, paws Harry's curls out of his eyes and pulls him in by the nape of the neck. For his part, Harry seems extravagantly calm for someone whose mouth is being ravaged, in Liam's opinion, with far too much tongue. They all catch a flash of Harry's as well where he traces light across the bow of Louis' lip. Louis pushes forward even further and slides his hands down to cradle bony hips, and tuck his fingers under warm cotton.

Nearly an entire voyeuristic minute later, the kind that Liam will eventually get used to, Louis pulls back with an obscenely wet slurp. He worries that whatever tactile relationship his two bandmates have struck up now lay in pieces beneath their drunken minds and swollen lips. But they both burst into fits of giggles in the silence that follows, so Liam doesn't say anything.

And if Louis' cheeks are burnished pink, and Harry keeps glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, well, Liam's not going to mention that either.

Louis sits back on his haunches. The nerves are gone, a wicked, self-satisfied smile tugging at his mouth, golden all over. He lick his lips, turns to his left, and doesn't even give Niall a choice.

"Weirdest place you've had sex?" Louis spits through a grin. Niall shrugs with difficulty.

"A utility closet at my school once," he says, garbled, tomato sauce sneaking down his cheek. "Got a foot stuck in a bin for my troubles, and I'm pretty sure she faked it anyway."

Zayn pats him comfortingly on the shoulder. Louis nods his condolence, and turns again.

"Liam? Have you even had sex?"

"I haven't said what I wanted yet, Louis"

"Spare me. The day you choose dare, my dick will fall off." Harry giggles behind Louis shoulder.

"Got D on the mind there, Lou?" Niall mutters, wiggling his eyebrows.

Louis sighs like it pains him. "Have you quite finished, Niall?" He turns to face Liam.

"Answer the question."

"Yes, I have." 

"How old was your deflowerer then, you tart?"

"Twenty-two." They all stare at him.

"Liam," Louis hedges gently, "you do know what I was asking you, yeah?

Liam's ears go pink. "I - yes! Of course, I'm not - look, it wasn't a huge deal-"

"Don't put yourself down, mate, I'm sure your willy is more than adequate..."

Liam shoves Louis on the shoulder, and his lips quirk up. "That's what Danielle told me at least."

He's met by four blank stares and one weak "Dancer Danielle?"

"It was nice," he continues, and he almost laughs at the way their jaws go slack and he's shut them up.

"Are you sure you did the, uh-?" Harry says, making some kind of obscene, drunken smash with his fingers.

"The sex?" Zayn finishes for him, only slightly less drunk.

"Yes," Liam says patiently, like he's speaking to a particularly educated gang of five year olds. "I'm quite sure I had sex."

It takes them a minute to come back to themselves, and then they're all laughing. Zayn still looks puzzled, Harry is giggling into Louis' shoulder and Niall is laying prone at his feet, having flipped off the couch yelling "Liam Payne is a God of Sex!" but he thinks, with a fond exasperation, that maybe he just fits right in.

 

_if you’ll only hold me tight, we'll be holding on forever_

 

Harry is pouting. Which is a shame, because the day had started out brilliant.

“I’M NAKED PEOPLE!” and he does a little dance because it’s not every morning that he wakes up with cameras in his bedroom.

He wishes ITV2 would have gotten additional footage of his more-than-adequate penis, for posterity and that, but apparently jumping out of bed and actually being naked scares off all the camera men.

(Though later, he’ll cringe when that picture ends up on the internet. Zayn will only laugh, Liam almost dies of shock when Niall sets it as the background on his phone. Louis’ll kiss Harry’s nose and say, “Next time you send me nudes love, be sure to get it up first. You're a grower.”)

But Harry is pouting because Louis had reminded him why he needed to get dressed, effectively ruining his clothing-free plans.

“You absolute ho. Get your kit on, The Brian Freedman would have a fit if you turned up 'unsuitably dressed to hone the art of dance' again." Louis' almost reached the door when the calls over his shoulder “And be sure to bring something warm. We’ve got the dungeons tonight, yeah?”

Harry hasn’t a clue what Louis is talking about, but where dungeons are involved he’d rather not like to know.

“We’ve got what tonight?” he presses.

“The London Dungeons. All of us are going. That’s why the cameras, ITV2 is running a thing on Saturday."

Harry vaguely remembers something about ‘London’ ‘dungeon’ and ‘potentially scarring for Harry’s mental state’ spoken in close proximity, but he was too busy dead arming Niall to be paying much attention to their activities this week, thanks.

“Ehm, can I like, stay here?”

“Hmm?”

“It's just, I dunno, s'not really- a thing. F’me."

“Seriously, if they’re filming, it’ll be a laugh. If you wanted, Liam’d probably walk in front of you and deflect all the crazies with his man-chest. Are you afraid?” It's more teasing than mean but –

Harry'd rather not answer.

“Nobody watches those things anyway. C’mon Lou, no one will even notice if I’m not there.”

“I’ll notice. You’ll do it for me won’t you?” Which yes, of course, but Harry doesn’t really want to admit to that either.

Louis sighs. “Look, I promise it won’t be that bad, a few budding local thespians limping around in chains. I’ll hold your hand when you get scared,” he says, handing Harry a jumper, pressing a kiss to his hairline and smacking his bare arse on the way out. “Nothing to worry about, babe.”

He does worry, though. He worries at breakfast. He worries onstage. He worries in the van. He worries when an undead-Pirate ushers him in. Harry doesn’t even like frightening things when they’re safely tucked inside his telly. Why on earth they thought he could handle it live action is positively beyond him. Still, he plasters on a smile and slings an arm around Cher because he will handle it even if he can’t.

As it turns out, he really can’t. But as soon as he flinches and flails away from something with skin peeling off its face, Louis’ beside him, tangling their fingers together, and pulling him close.

He buries his head deep into Louis’ neck and breathes for a minute, glad of the darkness that hides the way his cheeks glow red. Once his blood stops slicing through his veins, Louis tugs him back with tender hands, tucking curls behind his ears, all serious. “You alright, love?” A strobe light plays across Louis' face, their two-person world slowing to stop motion breathing and flickering worry. Harry absolutely needs the concern creased between his eyes and his undivided attention. So he throws Louis what he hopes is his least convincing nod and Louis buys it, all soft smiles and gentle fingers curling his wrist, urging him forward, anchoring him.

“Together, then.” he says, and, well, it’s not like Harry would say no.

The London Dungeons turn out to be far less frightening nestled under Louis arm, fingers tangled lazily, listening to the nonsense whispered in his ear.

“I bet that escaped convict took it too hard last night, and that’s why he’s limping," 

or

“That zombie is most likely my old geography teacher. Note, the elbow patches,” 

and

“Oh look, H, Wagner found something he likes to stroke better than that damn pussy," then after a beat yells, "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!" into the face of a startled, bloody, ax-murderer.

Back at the house, Katie is laughing at him, calling him out for being the literal baby of them all. Liam steps in, graciously defending his honor. Niall’s piercing shriek at the face Zayn pulls, while overdramatic, helps a bit.

But Louis and Harry can't really be bothered. Sat in the kitchen, watching Matt and Aiden reenact the way he'd accidentally smacked Cher when he screamed, Harry grips Louis' leg beneath the table. Something hot shoots down his spine and settles under the flexing fingers on the inside of Louis’ thigh.

Harry noses up to the skin behind his ear, innocent in the cruelest way. "Come upstairs, wanna show you something."

Shell shocked, Louis stands on shivery legs, attempts to reconcile the rest of his body parts and ignores the eyes that follow them out. The backs of their hands brush on every step.

The second floor is dark and cool in an easy kind of comfort. He's about to ask Harry why he's been pulled from his tea to stand in an empty corridor. And then it clicks, his face forming a comical "O" as Harry gently walks him back, and even now, he still doesn't know how he came to be this lucky.

This time, their kiss is like an agreement - no more one-sided scheming to pass off as a drunken, platonic, one-off. Instead, it's Louis pressed against a wall and Harry leaning in, gazing, adoring, soaking up his warmth like a cat in the sun. He eases forward and it's as simple as striking a match. Harry's bottom lip slips between both of Louis' and his mind fizzles out.

Warmth follows Harry's fingers, spreads from behind his ears, down his neck, into the hollows of his collarbones, but Harry's hand is icy and winter-rough where it tangles with Louis' on his chest. His nerves sing a five part melody, and it feels like this could be normal.

Niall is still shouting downstairs. Harry's hungry. Louis has a cold.

Harry pulls back far enough to nudge his nose against Louis'. He gets snot on his face and Louis' cold three days later, but he likes the reminder that it's not perfect. But honey (and germs) all over, it's theirs. And that's that, really. Something that won't be played off as a one-time mistake. It was a line they've been toeing since they'd met, a rubicon of seismic proportions crossed in a breath.

Harry was nervous before, because he thinks he was more drunk than Louis then, that maybe Louis, sneaky little thing, constructed an excuse to kiss him.

But now, God, Louis is looking at him like he’s hung the moon, and he doesn't know what he's done to deserve this. It’s been three months since July, but only four weeks in the house and the staring, the touching, the constant, inexplicable _need for you_ should be alarming. But Harry thinks that this thing they have going, perfect in its honesty, can’t really be scary at all.

_i sit here alone and i wonder why_

 

Still, Louis runs. 

And he doesn’t think anyone could blame him (unless, of course, it’s the show’s producers, who end up given him quite a talking to).

It’s just, nothing was working out the way that he expected it. A kid who seemed more kitten than boy had curled up over his heart, and his band, Jesus, _his band_ , was hopping along every week, singing their hearts out to keep them alive.

Louis remembers being questioned back in the queue, months ago, by a seemingly distracted women fiddling with her bracelets and picking through the crowd of people.

“How do you rate your chances?” she asked.

 _Next to nothing_ Louis had thought, looking around at his competition. “5%?” he replied, “If that.”

She’d nodded, flicked off her tape recorder and left him behind. He reckoned those would be his very few seconds of fame, and he had been wrong. Everything building up until now, making it through, meeting his boys, falling in – whatever this was with Harry was proper turning his life inside and outwards. And all of it was captured on film.

Sometimes it felt like he had no chance to breathe.

So he ran, to the only place where he thought he knew exactly who he was. His mum nearly died of shock when he called her from the railway. He spent the evening curled up with his sisters, stopping spats, and brushing through the snarls in Fizzy’s hair after football. It’s tempted him with an idea of normalcy, but Louis thinks that he’s changed too much to just slot back in.

He skips over tea with his mum in favor of more pressing matters. If home is where the heart is, he can't find his here anywhere. Louis should really do something about that.

As he stares at the painfully familiar knocker and the chipped green paint of her front door, he wishes for a moment that he was wearing something more serious than his flannel pajamas and moose slippers. Then, he knocks anyway.

After the door opens, a few seconds pass while she looks at him in disbelief.

“Louis?” Hannah says finally, obviously shocked to see him standing on her doorstep, much less standing on her doorstep at half-ten on a Wednesday. “What are you doing here?”

From the way that she sounds, Louis thinks she might already know what he has to say.

He greets her with a friendly hug and a kiss to the cheek when she beckons him in. She smells like home, smiles at him and fuck, it's going to be hard to break this girl's heart.

"How've you been?” he says, taking a steaming cup of tea and a seat on her couch. He kissed her for the very first time, right here, 8 months ago. It seems so very long ago, with everything upside down now and he shuffles off the memories. Keeping his voice purposefully light he asks, “How's Donny?"

“Well you’re here now, aren’t you?” she says with a confused laugh, but she still tells him about her mum's garden, the new shoe store in town, and that one friend "Franklin, you remember, short, bit heavy round the middle," who apparently got himself into a spot of trouble last week with some honey and an Austrian woman. The whole time Louis is nodding and hoping the smile on his face is enough to cover the knot his stomach is twisting itself into. The longer he stays silent, the harder this is going to be, and the more anxious and frantic her stories become, as if she thinks she could gloss over his ridiculous visit.

Eventually he stops her. "Hannah there was actually something I wanted to talk-"

"Which one is it, then?"

Louis breathes deep. Honestly, he doesn't even know why she has to ask. Harry's been the only thing on his mind since the beginning. Louis knows for a fact that he doesn't look at any of his other bandmates like he wants to cover them in cream and torturously lick it off. Like he'd ever date Liam... 

"Well I-"

"It's Katie, yeah? I always figured her a bit of a slag. Has the hair and all."

Louis stops, seriously confused. _Katie?_

"Who the fuck is Katie?" he asks.

"Don't think I don't notice, Louis. You pop up at my door after weeks of almost nothing to tell me we're perfect?"

He can't deny it. He can't stop looking at his hands.

"Is it Cher then? I thought she and Zayn maybe - or Rebecca. Jesus, Louis she has kids, you know..."

Hannah builds the story of his indiscretion for every woman who's ever passed through the house. Her oversight of male contestants is painfully obvious.

Minutes later he stands up. If she's not going to listen, he'll never be able to explain. She calls after him as he walks out, not knowing that should could have named every girl in London and still miss the glaringly obvious.

He spends the next day sulking and speaking as little as possible. His mum knows with her Super Mum Detection Powers that something has clearly gone amiss. Thankfully, she doesn't push.

On the train ride home, he can only think of the first and last times he sat on her couch, and how both had ended in lies.

/

“Where the actual fuck have you been?”

“I only popped home for a bit, Nialler, calm down.”

He finally spots Harry in the corner of their room, looking young and concerned under his mop of curls.

Louis is buzzing, a strange mixture of adrenaline and possessiveness that makes him dig his fingers into Harry's thigh, and tug him into his bunk for a nap.

All the boys are still in the room, but right now Louis couldn't care less. They all throw him A Look because Harry and Louis haven't really told them about HarryandLouis yet. Liam raises his eyebrows in a question, but Louis shakes his head and tucks Harry's under his chin.

Louis looks significantly at Zayn, who herds the other boys out into the hall with some excuse that Louis' sure he'll pay for later.

After the door snicks shut, Louis noses at Harry's forehead until he tilts his face up. He tips them over, pressing Harry into his sheets and ducking down to catch his lips. Louis' hands run everywhere; from Harry's waist to the ticklish top of his ribs, and down down down past his knee until he pulls up, wrapping it around his own back. Harry whispers Louis' name like a breath against his chin. He squirms under the hips that pin him down when Louis traces the soft skin of his belly. 

"Louis?" he says again, a question this time, stomach clenching under Louis' wandering fingers. He palms the growing bulge pushing at the front of Harry's pants. Harry arches into it.

"Do you not want to? We don't have to-" he asks softly, nervous, breath hot over Harry's collarbone.

"I do, god, Louis, yes but why did you-

"Later, Harry, I just can't -" Louis shuts his eyes tight against the guilt in his throat, hides his face in Harry's neck. "I can't talk about anything right now, I can't even think about anything right now. Please?" He has to know that this isn’t a dream, that _yes, this is exactly what I want, what I need, what I have_.

Louis rubs his thumb over the stiff length of Harry through the cotton of his briefs. His eyes meet Harry's, not a question as much as a confirmation. He tries to think back before they could speak without speaking and know without saying, but he comes up blank. Louis would be scared if he didn't love it so much.

“Please?” he says again, this time for a different reason, pressing their foreheads together. His voice breaks, and he needs to be sure that Harry wants this, too.

Harry nods slowly, so Louis slips his hand under the band of Harry's pants. His cock is already sticky with precome and fever hot. He curls his fingers and tugs gently upward, and Harry whimpers high in his throat, pushing his hips up into Louis' fist. Louis lets him because be knows now how much Harry wants this, can feel it in the way his thighs are trembling not to come so quickly.

Louis' grip is intoxicating, but it's not enough. Harry wants to bare everything, needs Louis to see what he's done to him, not just feel it. He pushes ineffectually at his briefs until Louis catches on, hooking them in his fingers and tugging down his legs. Harry whimpers until he gets Lou's hand back on his cock; Louis huffs a breath against his lips.

Louis kind of still can't believe he gets to do this, which is not to say he hasn't thought about it. From the moment they met, he's wanted nothing more than to get his mouth on Harry's rather impressive dick. It's like a sigh of relief, this; he doesn't think he could sit through another game of FIFA with Harry's head in his lap fighting a hard on.

Harry's hips flex off the bed again and a moan rises deep in his chest. Lou leans his sweaty forehead on his bare shoulder and shushes him, because as normal as it feels to slip into this sexual side of intimacy, he doesn't quite think Liam, Zayn or Niall would feel the same.

"Gotta be quiet, H," he mumbles, gripping him tight at the base like a warning. The moan chokes off fast in his throat, and Harry's heaving out breath now, but Louis thinks he can allow that. He's right there, too.

Louis keeps his fist moving, the noise obscene and slick in the forgiving dusk of the room. With the hand that's not clutching the sheets, Harry grabs Louis' moving wrist. Turning his head, eyes glazed and blown black he says, "C'mon Lou, more please, you gotta do more, I can't-" cut off by a whine when Louis slides his foreskin back over the head.

"Ok," Louis breathes back, shifting down, pressing Harry's thighs apart and settling in the cradle of his hips. He's still in his boxers, eyes focused on the way the cock in his hand twitches and smears precome on his fingers when his grip slips from tight, to soft, to tight again.

He's fucking hard in his own pants, unconsciously rocking his clothed length against one of Harry's flexing thighs. But he won't let that stop him, not when he's got this beautiful boy writhing in his bed, flushed, panting, good because of him. Louis wants to ruin him, see if he'll still whimper with two slicked fingers tucked inside him, or clench down and go silent. He wants to know how they fit then, when they're out of their minds in each other. He wants everything with Harry because he comes first with Louis, now. Always.

Louis slides his hand quicker, twisting his wrist sharp when he reaches the tip. He swipes his thumb over the sticky head, making sure the nail drags a bit, and noses up to Harry's ear. "That good, Hazza?"

Harry whimpers quietly and arches off the bed. His hair rubs into tangles on the pillow as he nods.

"Yeah, Lou, yeah," he says back. His voice is completely, utterly wrecked, a vocal manifestation of the heat in his cheeks and the need in his eyes. Louis' embarrassingly close from little breathy moans and the friction on his cock from Harry's bucking hips, but Harry hasn't come yet, and that's enough to stave off the pressure sneaking down his spine.

He draws a finger down Harry's length, thumbs around his balls, traces across his perineum, pressing gently. Just as he fits his mouth over the angry red tip of Harry's cock, Harry loses it. His hips stutter and freeze in an arch, spilling hot pulses over Louis' tongue. Harry strangles a moan, and the idea that he's being quiet, working hard to be good for Louis tips him over the edge just after, untouched, spilling into his boxers like a pleasure-indulgent teenager. Harry's fingers tangle in his fringe, trying to tug him away when he moans around his oversensitive length. Louis surfaces with a light pop and a smear of come on his lips that he licks at obscenely. He leans up to press panting kisses on Harry's throat as they both come down, overwhelmed.

Their breathing slows and the world rushes back into their sex-induced haze. Louis rolls onto his back and pulls Harry flush against him.

Harry can't meet his eyes where he's tucked up into Louis’ neck. He finally finishes his question, drawing sweeping circles over Louis ribs. "Why did you leave?”

Louis knows he must look guilty. He feels guilty for what it's worth. Harry sounds like he’s trying to cover exactly how much Louis’ sudden departure had hurt him. Eventually, Louis will tell him everything. Eventually, when his own come isn’t drying on his thighs.

If he'd have known, God, that Harry would stroll into his life just like it's nothing, maybe he could have ended things with her before. But he can't control this, not even if he wanted to. He's not making excuses, it's just. Well, it just is what it is.

"I had to take care of a few things,” he says. And it’s not a lie. It’s just not exactly the whole truth either. He's never met anyone who's settled himself in his own skin like Harry. He's not about to give that up (ever). And from the way Harry tightens his fingers enough to bruise Louis' side, Louis knows he's not either. "Can you give me a few days to process? I promise Haz, I’ll tell you the whole thing."

He nods against Louis' shoulder. “You’re alright though? Didn’t sell a kidney? No missing toenails?”

Louis laughs for the first time in days into Harry’s damp curls. “Toenails. Honestly, you’re so odd. No, Harold, I came back with the body parts I left with. And I’m fine, aside from the jizz drying in my boxers, you menace.”

Harry peeks at him, the picture of innocence. Louis stomach drops.

They've been with other people. Louis' kissed more girls than he'd like to admit chasing this comfort, and tonight wasn't the first time Harry's come in a boy's mouth. These things though, they don't matter, not really.

Because here, Harry has Louis, fucked out, languid, and so real beneath him.

Because they're just how they've always been, like the shivers down his spine and the itch in Louis' fingers were actions already in motion. Loaded springs before they even laid eyes on each other, the potential for this, now, whatever comes next, growing with them in their bones.

Because the way Louis tilts Harry's chin up, catches his gaze and then his lips in an easy kiss, that's how he knows - they've been with other people, sure. But they'll never mean home to anyone but each other.

 

_i was everything and nothing all in one_

 

The sixth week is the hardest. By now, a bit of the novelty has worn off, the excitement of living on their own becoming more a nuisance than a privilege and they wish they could shake this homesickness.

They’re also just realizing that their clothes won’t magically clean themselves and wearing onesies all the time are hardly a suitable replacement.

Rehearsals finish early because they’re a bit off today, have apparently lost their rhythm, and they head separate ways to find it again.

Zayn grabs the extra quilt from the end of Liam’s bed and takes to the balcony, a cigarette tucked between his lips. It’s as close as he can get to the blankets from home, worn and soft around his shoulders, laced with the smell of musky smoke and sugar.

Liam enjoys a blissfully long shower, finally getting the time he needs to himself. He never thought being part of a band meant living in the pockets of four other boys.

Louis’ sprawled out on the couch, remembering four little pairs of hands and the warily affectionate glare of his mother.

And Harry’s sprawled out over Louis, half asleep and wishing he could pop down to Tesco without pictures of his face ending up on the low-end gossip sites the next morning.

All the boys miss the familiarity of their old lives, but it’s easier for four of them, knowing home is a day trip away. They forget sometimes that Niall is just so far away from his.

More than anything, Niall misses green. Green grass, mossy cobblestones, cheesy Irish pride for fuck's sake.

London’s not all bad. It is, after all a new stomping ground he hasn’t been overrunning since childhood. But everything here is a little more grey and a lot more tamed. Rain is dreary no matter the city, but British storms taste different somehow. Irish rain douses everything in life on the widest range of hues. To its contrary, England on the brink of winter is just sad.

Come Thursday morning, Niall is head-butting the kitchen window, watching another storm roll in, hoping it will blow dreary winds and thoughts of home from the northwest. But after a while, all he's managed to do is stress eat through a pack of Jammy Dodgers, and give himself a massive headache. He wanders upstairs to find someone to cuddle. Maybe Zayn is still in bed.

When he gets to their room, his band is haphazardly pressing trousers and sweaters into a basket.

“What’s this?” Niall asks, peering over their shoulders.

“Your clean laundry. I might have accidentally knocked in a bit too much soap, but now they’re extra clean,” Harry answers, ruffling his hair as he passes.

“And as luck would have it, having four younger sisters has forced me to perfect the art of folding.” Niall looks at Louis who is beaming with pride.

He turns again to the familiar mass of jumpers and t-shirts that really belong to the five of them, only half of which are folded properly.

“I did my best,” Zayn says shrugging, apologetic, “and Liam did the ironing. Just barely burned himself twice.” Liam holds up two bandaged fingers in evidence, half a smile tugging at his lips.

Most of his clothes will probably be wrinkled again by the time he wears them, but he hurries to lay them in the dresser before his bandmates see the grateful flush spreading down his neck.

Niall gets to the bottom of the hamper before pausing, and curiously bringing the familiar rumpled onesie over to its proper owner.

“Oh, that.” Zayn says looking almost embarrassed. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “We just thought a bit of green would cheer you up.”

He just stares at his boys, trying to thank them properly, pulling them into hugs and kissing Liam’s wounded fingers.

Niall steps carefully into the green onesie, zipping it past his nose, breathing in Zayn’s cologne, Louis’ shampoo, Harry’s detergent overdose, and the warmth of Liam’s extra blanket. It smells like rain and home, and he feels a little better.

Mullingar has always been home for him, and in a way it always will be. But the five of them together are a home that needs no walls, and there are these Niall-shaped spaces that only he can fill.

 

_love is all you need_

 

It’s sometime in mid-November when they almost burn the house down. At least, that’s the way that Louis tells it.

“Massive flames, really shooting out of the thing. Thought Liam was going to have a panic attack. Our little fireman.”

Niall remembers it a bit differently. Strictly speaking, they didn’t really actually burn anything aside from a pencil and some marshmallows. And sure, there was soot on Zayn’s comforter and the smell of scorched sugar that they never could get rid of, but all things considered, it could have been much worse.

That all starts with Louis, because most things that begin well and end in a mess usually do. It was his crazy idea to roast marshmallows in their too small, horribly ventilated, unbelievably cluttered bedroom anyway.

But it’s technically Liam who thinks they should talk.

“I think we should talk,” he says one afternoon between rehearsals, when they’re just messing about downstairs and Zayn is having a nap.

“Oh dear, Liam, what have we done this time?”

Liam rolls his eyes, but Niall’s impressed that Louis doesn’t even look up from the hybrid table tennis tickle match that he and Harry are having in the corner.

“About the band, Lou. And after, you know if we want to try to stay together after this whole thing is over.”

“Bit serious talk so early in the day, don’t you think Hazza?” Louis replies, planting a sloppy kiss on the laughing line of his jaw.

“You don’t think we could win?” Niall says, looking up from his phone.

“I’m just trying to be realistic.” And because he knows Louis, “We should go upstairs to our room.”

“Zayn’s sleeping, Liam,” Harry counters, squirming under Louis’ wandering fingers. But Niall sees where this is headed because Louis never can pass by a chance to jump on anyone asleep. He’s midway up the stairs when he hears the resulting “Exactly,” and thunderous footsteps chasing him onwards.

Niall barely has time to crawl on top of a sleeping Zayn before Louis dives headfirst onto the bunk, bouncing him to the floor with a muffled thud and a “Christ, ow!”

“Time to wake up!” Louis yells and from what Niall can see, he’s also trying to get Zayn to punch himself in the face.

“Gerroff” Zayn groans out, throwing a less than impressive kick in their not so general direction.

Liam nudges Louis’ hands out of the way and rolls Zayn over so he can lean against the headboard beside him, relaying quickly what he said downstairs.

Zayn's voice comes muffled through the pillow. “Talk later, sleep now.”

They all ignore him, forming a haphazard circle in Zayn’s personal space, and look at Liam with expectant eyes. It was, after all his idea to speak of the future, when to everyone else it was assumed. Niall doesn’t know what more there is to say.

Apparently neither does Liam because he gets as far as “Alright, well… I was thinking that we should, you know, talk about what would happen to the band. After, I mean. If we don’t win. Or even if we do, because, yeah, it’s still important. But we might not so, here we are.” Niall pats his knee to quiet him. Clearly all the rehearsals are addling Liam’s brain, and he’s much more prone to rambling when he’s nervous.

Harry helps him out. “All those in favor of sticking with the band even after live shows...”

Three raised hands and a grunt from Zayn.

“Liam?” And for the first time Niall panics a bit because what if this is just a very Liam way of telling them he wants to go solo?

But his face goes all scrunchy like it always does when his smile gets too big for his face.

“So we’re doing this then?”

“Why would we not?” Zayn’s voice is incredulous like they should all know already, and Liam doesn’t really have an answer for that either. Niall hopes he’s not just saying this so he can go back to sleep.

“See Liam? For better or worse!”

“To have and to hold...”

“…until death us do part!” Louis finishes with a flourish, scrambling over four sprawling sets of legs.

“Where are you going?” Niall shouts after him.

“We need something to toast this momentous occasion!” Louis throws back, already halfway down the corridor.

He reappears in the doorframe with a half-eaten bag of marshmallows and something that’s pink.

“Ere’d y’get that?” Niall spits through a mouthful of crisps he found by the foot of the bed, pointing to the half-melted candle in Louis hand.

“Nicked it from Mary. She should really start locking her door.

Zayn produces a lighter, Harry grabs a handful of writing implements from the desk in the hall and the whole thing’s ridiculous because this means something now and they’re choosing to celebrate like children.

But really they’re just kids themselves, and Niall’s happy to stay that way if he gets to eat sweets in bed and swashbuckle with pens.

Matt pounds on the wall, a warning that they should be less obnoxious, and one that they ignore completely.

“To us!”

“To the boys!”

“To heading in One Direction!” Zayn punches Louis in the arm for that, and he pouts until Harry kisses his shoulder and feeds him a marshmallow (“Cooked to perfection, Harold. I don’t eat soot”).

They seal their fate with sticky handshakes and stickier lovebites until Liam knocks them to the floor when Niall drops his pencil on the bedclothes (“I wasn’t overreacting! It was on fire, Niall. Don’t give me that look.”).

Their mouths taste like rose petals, and Mary’ll be cross, but what was said stays between the five, and that’s enough to keep them smiling.

 

_i knew that it was now or never_

 

Week 8 brings the longest day of rehearsals and the tipping point. For the first time ever, they're preparing two songs to sing for this week’s judging, and the extra practice is taking a toll on all of them.

When they get out, there's too many girls screaming Harry's name and he has an easy smile for each of them, always polite. But it drives Louis mad and all he sees for the rest of the day is MINE in big flashing letters circling Harry's head.

So for the first time in ages, he phones Hannah, hoping to put this whole thing to rest. She doesn’t answer on the first try, or the second, but after five rings on the third her very abrupt “What do you want, Louis?” startles him so much that he can hardly answer. He tries to explain why he left so suddenly, why her assumptions hurt him without sounding too much like the victim. After all, it's his fault that this is ending.

When he starts to talk about Harry, her voice becomes a little too understanding.

"Ah," she says quietly, and Louis can’t stop himself from sighing. "So how long have you two been-?" she asks, making an aggressive sort of whistling sound.

Before he can answer, Harry walks in, a towel wrapped around his skinny hips, and Louis feels like his head might explode. It’s so odd to see the intersection of his lives laid out before him.

“For a while now,” he responds, gazing willfully at Harry’s dick, now swinging around in front of his face.

Hannah hums for a moment. “You know, Lou, it’s completely normal to want to experiment. Everybody does it. In fact last week, I kissed Lizzie – well I think it was Lizzie, I don’t really remember, see, I was a bit buzzy. It was nearly on the lips and –”

“It’s not like that.” Louis grips his hair in frustration. His tone is so forceful that she thankfully stops talking. “It’s not like that, Hannah. This is different, he's, he’s-”

Louis looks up at Harry, who stopped shimmying and pumping his dick in a surprisingly seductive manner once he realized who Louis was speaking to. Harry ducks out of the room with a sheepish, apologetic smile.

“Hannah, he’s so much." Louis' finally stopped cringing at how soft his voice grows whenever he talks about Harry. "And things just can’t go back to the way they were. We’ve both changed. And I think you know that.”

Her silence answers for him. “I’m so sorry,” Louis continues, “If I would have known I’d feel this way, I would’ve stopped this before I left.”

He can hear her sniffling quietly on the other end. She finally asks the question he knew was coming.

"Was there anything I could've done?"

Louis thinks about the tearstained boy in the bathroom, all tucked up in a beanie, nearly swallowed by his own fear. He thinks about a sweaty palm gripping his, laughing together under tangled sheets, eyes meeting across a stage for the world to see. Louis' never really caught his breath from the moment they kissed because he knew, from the beginning, that Harry would be important. It was always there, Louis' sharp wit fitting Harry's plush adoration, and they'll always, always work.

"No," he says. "Nothing anyone could do." Louis omits the fact that Harry was everything he never thought to look for, and how he makes Louis feel like he glows gold all over. How he makes Louis strong. No one needs to hear that said out loud, much less his ex-girlfriend.

"Hell, and just when you're about to make it big. You know Mum told me his would happen..."

But she's laughing now, and Louis joins her after a beat. She also agrees to stay in the picture a bit, play the part of the loving girlfriend to keep certain eyebrows from being raised.

"Increases my market value. Who wouldn't want to shag a girl with a famous boyfriend?"

Louis balks but lets it pass. As of now, she's free to do whatever she wants.

He knows the truth will come out eventually, but for now, with LouisandHarry just beginning, everything will just be easier. It's not like he's ashamed, because Harry is just about the best thing to ever happen to him. But he's flying blind here, and he supposes that maybe having Hannah on their side would make it easier, at least for a while. After all, gay, or whatever they are, won't sell a boy band.

"Does he make you happy?" she says, when the dust settles.

"Everyday," he answers, and he has to curl his lips around his teeth to tame the smile that follows.

Louis wonders if it’s too soon to be talking about things like this. But mostly, he feels relieved; first and foremost, Hannah was his friend. It's nice to know that not everything has to change.

She clears her throat. "Good, that's - that's all really good."

Louis nods, and then agrees aloud after remembering she can’t see him. She makes some excuse about school work with a promise to call later and that's that. He's a free man.

Well.

Not quite.

Not at all, really.

Louis traces the sounds of Shania Twain to the bathroom where Harry, under the pretense of drying his hair, is singing soulfully into a brush. His heart is beating entirely too fast when he asks Harry if he's busy later this evening.

Harry's face twists into a half-smile. "Bit soon after a break up for a date, don’t you think?”

Louis smiles guiltily back at him. "Boy's night in then. A not-date. I'll cook for you!"

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Lewis?"

But an hour later, after Harry begs, frowns, and pouts for Louis to pick a less dangerous romantic gesture, he concedes. He'd also filled a bucket with water, a small mixing bowl with flour and sat on the counter wearing oven mitts. Louis makes a point of ignoring the dramatics, fiddling with the pans on the burner. Harry scoots up behind him, singed oven mitt hands at his waist.

"No Harold, I am doing this. I am romantic. Go hide Liam's hair gel or something."

Harry drops a kiss to the nape of his neck. "Alright," he mumbles. "Just tuck your shirt in. Don't want you cooking yourself for dinner as well."

"I'm very busy at the moment unfortunately. Could use some assistance." Louis says seriously, adding a pinch of something green into one of the bubbling concoctions on the stove. Harry laughs and tucks the shirt safely away. He doesn't leave until he's snapped a picture of Louis in all red and posted it to Twitter with a winky face.

When Harry returns from swopping Liam's entire shelf of hair products with various condiments from the pantry, he finds the kitchen empty. There's a note precariously placed on a pile of dirtied dishes that invite him to retire to the sitting room for a luxurious meal.

The cushions have been pulled from the couch in the corner, most of Rebecca's candles and Mary's forgotten ones littering the floor. The room smells strongly of mismatched vanilla-almond and lilac but Harry couldn't care. It's silly, and unnecessary and so Louis to do anything to make him happy.

He sits down on a pillow across from Louis, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"What'd you make for me chef?"

Louis beams at him, nervous, but says proudly, "Well we've got chicken, wrapped in parma ham, stuffed with mozzarella cheese, with some homemade mashed potatoes." His hands do an endearing flop routine, before he passes Harry his own plate of seemingly edible food.

"Delicious." Harry replies, lifting a fork and tasting it. He's mostly right; the chicken's a bit burned on one side, and the potatoes are more scrambled than mashed. But Louis is doing this just for him, and that makes it all the more special.

They eat in silence, stealing smiles until Louis twines their legs together. He clears his throat. "So – a few weeks ago, when I left, I talked with Hannah," Louis says, staring at his plate.

Harry startles, not really understanding why now, of all times, Louis has decided to finally talk about this. He nods anyway. He understands why Louis’ hesitant, or at least he thinks he does. It's been crazy for Harry. With his big dream in a big city, he still managed to find something even more monumentally important. He can't imagine what it must be like for Louis who thought he'd had himself sorted, only to have Harry stomp all over it. Louis' not angry with him, never could be for that, but. Yeah, it's crazy sometimes.

"I guess it's over now,” he continues, “I mean she knows about this."

Harry sort of figured that somewhere between Louis’ frantic kisses and his own orgasm.

"Is she upset? Well, of course she is but-"

"She's alright actually." Louis hesitates a moment. He should probably tell Harry just why she changed her mind, why she's not angry like she should be, and probably wants to be. But Louis doesn’t want to hurt Harry with the truth, that Hannah’s not mad because Harry’s a boy, and she thinks that this is all some kind of phase. Sometimes people leave too much for Louis liking.

"She was thinking, and I - uh - sort of agree, that maybe she should stick around for a bit. Just for appearances. To make things - easier," he adds, to smooth out the furrow between Harry's eyebrows. "But I - Harry you have to know, I want this more than anything.

Harry knows. Of course he does.

"Ok, so maybe we wait, then." Harry says. "A little, like you said. Like, we know how we feel, it's just, with the show ending, and Christmas, and Hannah still in the picture, maybe it's just easier to not make it like, official yet."

Louis nods, and makes a face like he really doesn't fancy doing that even though it was his idea. But he covers it quickly with a smile, scratches behind Harry's ears and says, "Good things come to those who wait. You done, H? Perfect, you get to wash up."

He follows Harry into the kitchen and purposefully tries to get in his way, sticking bubbles in his ear and dripping water down his neck until he's banished to the couch. Before he leaves, he slides his arms around Harry's hips and tucks his shirt into his jeans. "Wouldn't want you too clean for me." Louis snaps a picture same as Harry, but unlike the last, keeps it for himself.

It was the best not-date they'll ever have. And they do try to rein it in. They last 16 hours before Zayn finds them snogging on Louis' bed.

"Alright boys?" He says, grabbing HarryLouisLiam's faded purple jumper from under a pile of mismatched trainers and slipping it on.

They must look ridiculous, eyes wide, lips swollen, the neck of Harry's t-shirt tugged way to the right. Caught sneaking sweets before dinner.

Zayn laughs and walks over. He straightens Harry's collar, rumples Louis' wild hair and drops a kiss to both their foreheads.

"'Bout time, honestly." He calls over his shoulder. The door shuts loud behind him.

(It wasn't time necessarily, not until the end of the show.

Last minute, last song, everything lit up and shining all over. They're on stage with a thousand voices cheering them on. Louis catches his gaze, the same deep green, imploring now.

Harry launches himself at Louis. The crowd screaming, lights flashing, tears, hugs, goodbyes. This feels big, like a slate wiped clean that's waiting for its masterpiece.

The perfect time for a new beginning.

"Ready Haz?" Louis asks, muffled into wild curls.

"Always was, Lou," comes the reply.)

 

_would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

 

The call comes on a Tuesday, and Zayn ignores his phone.

Normally it’s not important, one of his sisters threatening to redecorate his room again with ridiculous amounts of pink and Justin Bieber.

So Zayn ignores his phone, because they’re in the middle of the chorus for “Chasing Cars” and Savan hates it when they just stop mid-song.

Thirty-six minutes, half a bag of Fritos and a violent game of Louis-slaps-everything-that's-not-moving later, he remembers to check his messages. Lots of sniffing and he would've wanted you to be here if you could manage are all it takes for his world to come crashing down.

Louis notices first, when a ruffle of Zayn’s hair doesn’t lead to head-locking retaliation. He’s silly to serious in a moment, peering up at him and apparently sending out the One Direction distress signal. The rest of the boys are by his side in seconds.

“Uh, so yeah, my Grandad’s died? And my mum called like, an hour ago to tell me but we were in rehearsals and I missed it and she wants me to come home but I – this week is important and we’re so close – shit…”

They fold in around him before he's even finished. Harry’s pressed up behind him in his octopus way, Niall and Liam have a hand each and Louis is looking more solemn than normal as he presses a kiss to the crease between his eyebrows.

“Don’t, like, win without me, or anything.” Zayn whispers, and he’s not even crying, none of them are, not even a little.

Harry’s voice rumbles sincere through the back of his skull. “Wouldn’t know how.”

They thumb away his not-quite-tears, promise to see him _so soon you won’t miss us_ and from there, it’s a three hour trip to Bradford.

It’s late when the driver finally pulls in. Zayn makes it halfway up the walk, suitcase rattling behind him before his family spills out the front door. He’s swarmed by distant cousins, impossibly tight hugs, and loads and loads of tears. They dole kisses to his cheeks to welcome him home and he greets them all in turn. But he feels different, off-kilter, like he’s forgotten how to face the world missing most of his arms and the four extra hearts keeping 5/8 time.

Somehow, his youngest sister ends up on his back, and he’s being coaxed into the kitchen with the promise of tea.

Aunts, uncles, cousins and sisters cluster around the worn wooden table, and Zayn takes a moment to breathe this life back in. There’s the light above the sink that’s been out since April, the dent just peeking from behind the curtains when he absolutely was not to play football inside and didn’t listen. There’s the way the whole house still smells of brown sugar and they all press their dusty memories against his temples. Zayn shakes his head and gratefully accepts the steaming mug from his Mum.

Between recounting every move his Grandad made in 1974 and the way he cooked his chicken, he sends the boys a quick text.

**safe an sound in bradford. miss u lot already xx**

Zayn’s never been more exhausted, but he finishes his tea and does his best not to fall apart when he’s reminded that their version of “You Are So Beautiful” will be played at the funeral. He makes his excuses to his family and heads upstairs, his mum following close behind.

She sets his case down on the hardwood. “It's nice to have you home” she says, kissing his forehead, and the door shuts quiet behind her.

He hums in response, and mumbles “Yeah” a beat late. It’s nice to be back and his bed seems massive as he spreads out on it, but –

But at the same time, it’s beyond strange, and he easily feels he could have made it all up. Like sometime tomorrow he’s going to wake up late for English, and sit like a caged songbird in an unironed uniform.

His phone buzzing on the nightstand hooks him out of his mind. He thumbs the screen and finds three unanswered messages.

Louis’ is first. 

_only 2 kisses!??!! behold, th truth revealed! c’mon z, whos your favs?_

**u Lewiss, alwys u xxxx**

Harry’s is next.

_Mutual xx. Did you know that stealing Niall’s food awakens the beast within? Ate his Nando’s and he nearly ate me._

**u shoulda known alredy haz. run fast.**

Niall's is third.

_harry stole my chickn wrap !! wanker. m sleepin in yer bed 2nite. wierd not having ya here_

**no feet on my pillow this time pls :/**

He has two missed calls from Liam.

Zayn takes a deep breath and redials. When Liam answers, he's sniffling.

"Aw babe, none of that."

Liam laughs, low and soft and Zayn wishes so badly that he wasn't here alone. "Miss you, Zayn."

He hums as he turns on his side, phone tucked up to his ear. "Miss you, too. M'room's too empty."

About a week ago, Liam and Zayn had moved out of the death trap passing for a living space they shared with the boys into another room down the hall. Louis had pouted, accusing them of abandonment, forgetting to love him and threatening never to do his laundry again as to suffocate under a pile of clothes. Then Harry had leaned over and whispered in his ear. Next thing they know, Louis' gathering jumpers at random off the carpet, pushing them into a bemused Liam's arms and guiding them out the door.

(Both Liam and Zayn blame the mess for their relocation. It was really decided on the third night in a week they hear Harry moan around a mouthful of Louis.

**U n me in aidens 2moro nite?**

_PLEASEEEE!!!!!!_

Niall snores on in the corner and stays when they leave. He's always the last one in on the joke.)

"It's so quiet here. Don't remember what it's like to fall asleep by m'self."

So Lam keeps talking, and tells Zayn everything he's missed in four hours. The little things, like their trip to Nando's tonight. And the bigger ones, how Niall had demanded it after walking in on HarryandLouis naked and writhing. "No one ever tells me anything!" he'd yelled, slapping a hand over his eyes, the door left ajar as he fled. How Harry stole his food in retaliation later.

Zayn laughs soft because he can see it all perfectly in his head, how ridiculous they are. It makes him miss them all the more, and he barely hears Liam say they're coming up for the funeral. Zayn just hums at the familiar cadence of Liam's voice, breathes in slow and falls asleep.

/

The call comes on a Thursday and this time, Zayn's phone is in his hand. His conversation with Louis is short; they're on the M62, and dressed to the nines.

"See you soon, babe," and Zayn's alone in a huddle of family once again.

Minutes later, they roll up in a black sedan, a bit rumpled and red-eyed. But they have eight arms and four soothing voices that curl around Zayn like he never even left.

“We’re going to be fine,” Louis breathes eventually, and they will be. They’ve staged most of their performance, this pain will heal in time, and if nothing else, because they always, always do what Louis says. Zayn doesn’t even need to pretend to believe him. Louis may not be serious a whole lot, but this is different because it’s them, and he knows Lou’s been half in love with them all since the beginning anyway.

Oversimplified, they’re just sad boys in a cemetery on a windy day in December. Only there’s nothing just about them anymore, not when they’ve been tied together by bumping elbows, pervasive fondness and a common dream. There are songs that need rehearsing and a competition to get back to, but for now, it’s five against the world, simply pressing on.

 

_into something real_

 

“Mind if I join you?” and Liam’s mind sputters back to something else, eons ago, with help-I’m-on-a-desert-island fashion statements and what they thought were harmonies.

Harry still waits for Liam's answer. They're all close; how could they not be after something like this? But out of the five of them, Liam thinks that he and Harry might be the most like actual brothers. Competition, hair pulling, ball slapping and all.

When he looks over, Harry’s peering at him with the biggest grey-green eyes, like he’s about to be rejected for the first time in his life. Liam snorts and pats at the cushion next to his hip.

Harry pulls a syrup-slow smile, already easing Louis’ sleeping head off his lap. He pads across the carpet, past Zayn half dozing and half out the window because he knows the smoke makes Niall’s head ache, and Niall himself, curled into a ball on a nest of pillows. Harry tucks easily under Liam’s shoulder and nearly smothers him in octopus limbs.

“We should round up the boys, Harry," Liam breathes into his messy fringe, dropping an arm over the pale slope of his shirtless back.

Harry only hums in response, his breath warm and dipped in sleep where it blows along Liam’s neck, long fingers sneaking under his hem to splay on his ribs. Just a few weeks ago, Liam would have wondered, however briefly, what the others would say if they looked up at them. It could be worse, Liam thinks, at least he’s not going for his balls this time.

But he knows them all better now, knows when they’re most free with their hands; Niall when he’s excited, Louis when he’s drunk, Zayn when he’s sulking and just needs a cuddle, and Harry when he’s tired, though he seems that way often. Liam’s gotten used to all the touching; there was a glaring shortage of snuggles when he was going it solo.

He doesn’t want to think of how he’ll miss it tomorrow when regardless, their bags will be packed and it’s the end of an age.

“Do you really think we could do it?” and Liam doesn’t have to ask what Harry means. The five of them have been this unshakeable thing since the funeral and it’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

“Yeah, I do” Liam tells the top of his curls but he doesn’t truly know if he believes it. Being on the show is like a holiday from real life. If they come in second, or even third, they’d need a manager, a production team, and marketing willing to take them on; not to mention a record deal.

A million and one things would have to happen at just the right moment for them to keep whatever magic they have going. A promise to stay together may not be enough, even if it was sworn with sticky handshakes and a sugary lovebite from Louis.

Promise and execution are two different things, and Liam knows it.

He has to stop lying to Harry like this, before these glittering no-or-go moments. But the droop in his eyes and the way he nearly purrs at Liam’s hand in his hair makes Liam want to iron out the worry in his heart.

So now they wait, for the credits to roll and tomorrow to come and the rest of their lives to sort themselves out.

“We should get to bed,” Harry agrees eventually. “Big day.”

“In a minute,” Liam answers.

Louis snuffles. Niall snores. Zayn blows a thread of smoke into the cold. It's easy like this, all five of them, familiar and comfortable, like pilled cotton worn soft again.

A minute passes, but the room stays quiet, and it might be okay in England.

 

_do you really want to live forever?_

 

They don’t win. And it’s maddeningly close, reach-out-and-touch-it-with-the-tips-of-your-fingers tangible. An utterly painful _almost._

But after the tears and the lingering goodbyes to a life of familiarity, reporters will ask them "What was the best part about being on X Factor?" Their responses are always carefully constructed; “It was just an incredible platform, yeah” or “It was great to be involved creatively” or “Singing with Robbie Williams. Absolute Legend.”

It's maybe not the absolute truth.

Some metaphysical great-and-powerful Oz gave Zayn his Courage, Niall a Home, LouisandHarry an entangled Heart. Liam's Brain they find, is endearingly addled.It was more than just the start for them. It etched love inside their ribs, wove their lives into a melody.

They don’t win, but they certainly didn’t lose.

Simon is right, as he usually is. The next day he signs them with a speech about potential.

(The thing-that’s-not-fate had plan for them. This almost was the last for a while; from then on they’re on a diamond-studded, heart-wrenching, privacy-invading crash course to superstardom. The next time they stop to look around, they’re doe-eyed boys on the top of the world.)

Louis ditches the bowl cut and a wonderful sort of ache settles deep in his chest, a relentless affection for his four best boys that, more often than not, rips his seams wide open. He's does everything he can dream of and more, still asking "What's next?"

Zayn grows more beautiful and still refuses to get out of bed. They all love each other, but Zayn loves most freely, with hands sliding over curved shoulders and slotting into hips; equal parts possessive and protective. He doesn't stop loving even when he leaves, and that makes everything just the slightest bit easier.

Liam reinvents his hair and does some soul searching, the shearing and curling and quiffing a reflection of his current state of corruption. He never has holes in his shoes again, but that hardly matters. Liam doesn’t want anymore; he has all that he needs.

Niall’s teeth are straightened, but his laugh is just as wild, bursting with mischief and a joyful simplicity that never fully fades. A new crowd screams with him every night and it never gets old.

They all watch with an intense sort of pride as Harry shoots up, fills out, and inks his skin with bits of love, curious stark-black promises of forever that lay him out for the world to see.

Whatever comes, they grow up and in and tethered, filling creases and folding new ones. Neatly tied in a messy bundle of LiamHarryNiallLouisZayn with no return-to-sender.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm still makescalmity over on tumblr, come say hi!


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